Eyes of Steel
by 17ginny17
Summary: Gunshots ring out through the night. Far away, a young man, hardened by his criminal life on the streets, falls to the ground. Dallas Winston's icy stare long ago captivated Cherry's unwilling heart, but that should be over now. What if it isn't?
1. Gunshots

_"I could fall in love with Dallas Winston...I hope I never see him again, or I will"_

Chapter 1

I was sitting in my bedroom, legs crossed on the floor, with my arms wrapped around me. I was shivering from the wind coming through my window and I had goosebumps all down my legs, but I couldn't move even if I wanted to. I was listening, nervous as anything, to faint noises of chaos somewhere far away outside. I wanted with all my soul to get up and close that window, but I couldn't. My eyes and ears were fixated on that window, and my imagination was providing the gory images that I knew were going on somewhere.

Outside, a fight was going on. A "rumble", that's what they call it, acting proud to be a part of the horror.

A fight between Socs and Greasers shouldn't bother a nice, pretty, West Side Soc like me this much...but that's just it. This isn't a fight between Socs and Greasers. It's a fight between people. Between my friends, for whom I have become a spy of sorts, and my neighbors, with whom I have grown up and once-upon-a-time chosen a boyfriend from among._ Proud, ha!_, I thought bitterly.

A shiver ran down my spine, this time unrelated to the wind blowing on me. Suddenly, my heart gave a wild jump as I heard gunshots ring out into the night air, and then I heard screams. Was I imagining it? Or was someone shouting a name? No...it couldn't be...it couldn't be him.

I finally broke out of my trance-like state. I walked shakily to the window, and pulled it closed. I dropped into bed, still fully clothed, with uncomfortable, chilly thoughts running through my head. A blond, icy-eyed boy, no, really a man. A thief, a criminal, a Greaser. _Dally_. Surely I was imagining the name. Surely it was just the wind, blowing through trees, transformed into that word by my mind. Surely it was just because that name had been running through my mind so often that I thought I heard it shouted into the unforgiving night.

I tried to fall asleep, but nagging thoughts kept me awake, and finally I got up. I walked out of my bedroom, left a hurried note on the table just in case my parents woke up wondering where I was, slipped into my sneakers, and walked out the door. I made sure not to let the screen door slam, but even my footsteps on the walkway outside seemed too loud and unnatural.

I don't know why I felt the need to investigate. Maybe it would have been better if I had just gone to sleep and forgotten about that boy. But something told me that I needed to go, and I listened.

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After walking aimlessly on numerous East Side streets, wishing I had brought my car instead, I finally realized that I had found what I had been looking for...and what I had hoped would not be there. A body, soaked in deep crimson blood, with bullet wounds that seemed impossibly gruesome. The blond hair and too-familiar face told me all I needed to know. My head reeled and I wanted to throw up, but I managed to get away at a half-walk, half-run. I went for what seemed like a long time, until my legs threatened to fall out from under me, but I was finally able to think coherently.

A split second idea formed in my head, and there was no time to be wasted. I ran up to the nearest house, and knocked on the door. I saw a light in an upstairs room turn off, and soon enough, an elderly man opened the door. I breathlessly asked to use the phone, and he nodded a gruff yes. "Yeh look like a nice enough gal, go ahead and make a call...you know I had a little girl looked just like you when she was youn'...pretty red hair and all..."

I hastily thanked the man, who was still muttering about his daughter, as well as God for letting me find a house where I would be allowed in.

I found the phone, and dialed 9-1-1 as quickly as shaking fingers would allow. The man who picked up asked what I wanted, and I managed to tell him the street and that there was someone badly hurt by bullets. I didn't tell them my name, and neither did I tell them any more than the bare minimum. After all, what else did I know? Just a name, and that was a name that was certainly too painful to utter out loud.

I made another phone call to Marcia, who I knew would be awake still. She agreed to pick me up after I made up some half- baked story about why I was out here.

When her car pulled up, I sat down in the backseat and she drove me home. I thanked her as she pulled into my neighborhood, and stumbled in the door and into the silent house. As I walked along the wooden floors, I prayed that Dallas would be all right. Even though he was a Greaser, and a criminal, and I wanted to hate him.

I told myself it was because I couldn't deal with someone else dying--It hurt enough when Bob (no, don't think about Bob) died. Sweet Bob, alcoholic Bob, Soc Bob, _dead Bob_. I told myself that was the only reason I cared.

I went to bed again, this time falling into a blurry, dark dream of funeral marches and flashing lights.


	2. Hospital

_"He kept trying to make someone say 'No' and they never did. They never did. That was what he wanted. For somebody to tell him 'No'."_

Chapter 2

For many days after Bob's death, she had cried and felt an empty, churning sensation in the pit of her stomach. Grief was blind to reason. She didn't care who was asking for it. She didn't care that she had seen the boy who had killed him, and he wasn't a ruthless murderer. She didn't care that he seemed like one of the nice ones. 

But later, she started thinking about things, and nothing would add up. People weren't who they seemed, and simple things changed like a kaleidoscope into multi-faceted complex problems. 

For one thing, she knew why Bob had died. There was a reason, and a little voice inside of her said maybe, just maybe, it was Bob's own fault. 

No one seemed to remember that the very night Bob died, Cherry was talking to a kid named Ponyboy, and he was telling her about his friend. His friend named Johnny. And she had known then why Johnny was so afraid of being jumped, and she had known what would happen if anyone ever tried it again. She just never realized that someone might be Bob. 

And another thing was bothering Cherry, even more than that. She had always known that Bob was, well, spoiled, for lack of a better word. Most of Bob's close friends knew that Bob would keep going with his drinking and bullying until someone laid down the line. They all knew that someone had to tell him 'No', and they all assumed that at some point or another, his parents finally would. Maybe they would have, but not soon enough. What Cherry worried about, though, was that maybe it didn't have to be his parents. It could have been his girlfriend. 

Why hadn't _she_ told him 'No'? Why didn't she ever stop him, take away the liquor, make him listen? Sure, she'd bugged him a little, she'd left when he took out the bottle, but that helped about as much as 40 slaps with a wet noodle. 

Meaning, not at all. 

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I woke up that morning with sun in my eyes and a question burning in my mind. How is Dally? Where is everyone else? And mostly, what in the world happened? 

I needed to find out, but I had a feeling that the answer was already the one I dreaded. Who could I ask? Of course, Ponyboy and the rest of his gang would know...but that would mean another trip to the other side of town, and that would almost definitely mean trouble for someone. And besides, I hate Dally. Why should I make a trip out there for him? If he's dead, then I'm sure they don't want me, who threw soda at him and told him to go--somewhere unpleasant, around. 

I pondered what to do as I got dressed and brushed my long red hair out of my face. I finally decided to go to the hospital--there was only one nearby, so if Dally was somewhere, that would be it. That or buried, already gone and lost to the world. _No, don't think that. Why do you even care?_, I thought, but I answered before the thought even left my mind. _Because Ponyboy cares, and Sodapop, and Darry.They are why I care._ A small part of me said there might be more, but I immediately told it to shut up. There was nothing more. 

The toast I was making burned, but I ate it anyway and then left in my Corvette. Another stab of guilt hit me, then, thinking about Ponyboy's accusation about the car, when he said that it wasn't fair for me to have it when Greasers barely had enough money to live on. Still, I drove on to the hospital, determinedly thinking about anything but Greasers. Needless to say, that attempt was useless, because before I even finished the resolution, I started remembering that night at the drive-in movie. 

But after a few minutes, I pulled up at the hospital, got out of the car, and walked into the large, sterile looking building. It seemed impossible to me just then that Dally should be in here, a white, clean, restraining hospital. 

The lady at the front asked what I wanted, so in a calm voice, though my inside was shaking, I said, "I would like to know if my friend is here? (I didn't say Dallas, since sure as anything no one knew his name unless he told them) Blonde boy, g-gunshot wounds". The lady took out a file, looked at it for some time, and said, "We have someone who came in last night, fits that description". 

"Well...er...can I visit him?", I said, unsure of what I was doing. "No. He's in a critical time now, no visitors. I'm sorry". 

I waited of a moment, and then asked, "Do you have anyone by the name of Ponyboy Curtis?" I'm not quite sure why I asked, since I didn't expect him to be here. 

To my surprise and horror, she answered, "yes". 


	3. Visiting

My mouth dropped open. Ponyboy? Here? In the hospital? It couldn't be true. My mind started working frantically and irrationally. _No, not him, please God, not him too. Please don't let him die._ I scolded myself for being so morbid; who knows for what reason he is here.

My mouth formed the words, although my heart was beating too fast. "May I please see him?"

The nurse answered in a bored manner. "Is he any relation to you?"

"No", I answered truthfully, "but he's a good friend, and I--"

The nurse interrupted. "Fine, girl, if it's that important to you" She let me go up to his room, and I personally thought that I put on a good image of being composed and cool. Until my fingers trembled so much that I could barely press the buttons in the elevator. _We Socs, we don't feel at all. We're good at pretending._

I reached Ponyboy's room and peeked in the door. He had some bandages on his head, and Sodapop was sleeping in a nearby chair. Darry was also sitting near the bed with bags under his eyes and worry etched all over his face. This was no place for me. I turned to leave, hearing Ponyboy mumble as I did, "Soda? Soda? Darry? Mum? Dad?" I turned back around, and walked into the room.

Darry turned to look at me with his tired, grey eyes. "Hey Cherry"

He saw my face and told me the story. Everything. The way he fought Paul, his old friend, to the ground. The way Ponyboy got a blow to the head when he was pushed to the ground. The way Dally was shot by the police, on purpose, holding up an unloaded gun. My face turned pale, but I knew what happened and for that I was glad. I talked to Darry a little bit more, but after a while I knew I had to get out.

I walked out of there, and just as I did, I heard two nurses passing by. They were talking about shellfish, latex gloves, and a boy with gunshot wounds and white-blonde hair, seemingly in off the streets. The last one obviously caught my ear, and I stole an oh so careful look out of the corner of my eye at the paper containing the patients that were on her shift. Sure enough, Dally's name was there, accompanied by a foreign sounding last name. And the words "Room 239".

_How did they know his name?_, I wondered as I made my way to the elevator. But I guessed that there were plenty of police files on him. _I wonder if those gunshots are on file_, I thought.

I reached the room, and when I asked one of the nurses there she told me the story. He had two bullet wounds, one on his arm and one dangerously close to his heart. He could have died--I knew that, but it was scary to hear it from someone who knows what they are talking about. I walked into the room, although the nurse warned me not to try to wake him up. I stood awkwardly by his bed, and talked to him in a quiet voice. In truth I felt pretty stupid, but I would not have done anything else.

"Um...hey Darry, get better..." I gave up. He couldn't here me, so why should I try talking. Instead, I grabbed a nearby sheet of notepaper and wrote a hurried note. **Darry, it's Cherry. I really hope that you get better enough to read this. I really don't know what else to say, so just get well in a hurry, okay?**

I don't know why I felt a little tremble in my heart as I wrote that note, but I knew that I wanted to leave. Now.

Once in my car and about to drive home, I banged my head against the steering wheel. _What's up with you, Cherry? You don't bother to tell Darry that Dally's alive, you write that STUPID, STUPID note when you shouldn't even see Darry...get a grip!_

--

When I got home, I flopped onto a couch. Mother and Father were out, as they usually are, so I was all alone. In an attempt to fill up the empty silence, I turned on the TV and tried to watch. Still, my thoughts rang out loud and clear.

Tears of hopelessness, frustration, and another feeling I could not name ran down my cheeks, but I determinately bit my lip and stared straight ahead.


	4. TEMPORARY CHAPTER

To whom it may concern: (meaning whoever has been reading this story)

I should start off by saying that I am very sorry that I just stopped writing chapters for you guys without any notice. I have been meaning to continue and then I have no time and...yeah. Enough excuses. The story is TEMPORARILY stopped where it is. I still hope to continue it. For the moment, though, I can't promise anything. So any readers out there, if you want, put me on your 'story alert list'. I really really hope to be able to get out some more chapters...unfortunately I don't know when.

Sincerely

_17ginny17_

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PS: I am still active on FictionPress, this site's 'sister site' so check out listen.to.the.wind (that's me!) by doing a search for 'Emmet Warner's time machine' (that's a title) and then clicking on the author's name, 'listen.to.the.wind', to get my profile page. Thanks!


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